by Smith, Joan
She dragged herself from her chair, trailing the lace wisp after her. She was fatigued with the weight of all these pending exertions. So fortunate she had dear Holly to help her a little.
* * *
Chapter 2
Lord Dewar sat at an ornate japanned desk in his bedchamber on Grosvenor Square with a cup of black coffee at his elbow, and the Morning Chronicle open before him. It was his custom to begin at page one of this journal and quickly read it through each morning before he dressed. Today, he stopped at page seven, his eyes scanning the social columns.
One would be forgiven for thinking him ill-pleased with the world. There was an expression of weary disdain on his chiselled countenance. His black brows, as finely etched and groomed as any lady’s, rose a fraction as his grey orbs settled on an item in the column. Without looking up, he reached out his hand for a pencil, and drew a circle around the item, then lounged back in his padded chair and sighed luxuriously. A smile of satisfaction settled on his lean cheeks. Then he shoved the paper aside and took up his coffee.
Really a dead bore, the daily papers. When you’d read one you’d read them all. Always a tirade against the government, and usually another against the Prince Regent in this Whig paper. Prices were high and rising daily, the roads were a national disgrace, and one or another of the Royal Family was ill. On the editorial pages there would be an article against the low academic standards pertaining at the universities, the low moral values of the aristocracy, and the high unemployment.
Really, the world was a demmed bore. He would be happy to get away to the Abbey for a few months and recuperate his spirits. Even if that notice had not appeared in the paper he would have gone. In fact, especially if it had not appeared, he would have gone.
He picked the Chronicle up once more and reread the item. Lady Congrave was pleased to announce the betrothal of her niece, Lady Alicia Grover, to the Hon. Hanley Healey Smith-Daiches.... Folks would take the shatter-brained idea he was running to hide his grief, when the visit (to say nothing of the betrothal) had been arranged a week before, to escape the lady’s clutches. That was the trouble with women. Flirt with them for a few weeks, and they took the cork-brained idea you wanted to spend the rest of your life with them. Marriage was for fools and clergymen. What man would willingly shackle himself to one woman for the rest of his days, when every Season brought forth a new batch of beauties?
One month had proved the invariable length of time it took him to become tired of a young lady. One week to learn her tricks, two to admire them, one to become disenchanted. Strange when one came to consider it for, with male friends, the longer you knew them the better you liked them. But with women it was the reverse. There was nothing so fascinating as a new flirt. It was not likely he would find any to his liking at Harknell, in the very heart of Kent, where his Abbey was situated. Should he invite a few along? No, this would be an all-male party, he decided. To be inviting females to one’s ancestral home had a serious air he sought to avoid in his affairs.
He had invited Luke Altmore for rational conversation; George Foxworth for riding and hunting; old Sir Laurence Digby to amuse his mama; and Rex Homberly, a cousin, had invited himself. He would amuse no one, but never mind. He was a harmless fool. Kings of old were accustomed to have midgets and clowns about them, and Rex filled the dual capacity, being only slightly above five feet in height and an acknowledged idiot. It did not occur to Dewar that he had mentally assigned himself a monarch’s crown in this analogy, nor would it have seemed out of place to him if he had thought of it. He was considered a sort of monarch of society.
He was disturbed by a scratching sound at the door, as of a cat sharpening its claws. Curious, Dewar arose and went to open his door. There was no cat there, but a stumpy, slightly overweight gentleman with a pink face and bright blue eyes.
“Morning, Dewar. Mind if I come in?” he asked, and pushed his way past, into the elegant chamber.
“Why were you scratching at my door? Why did you not knock or, better, await below and have word sent up you were here?” his cousin demanded, never in a terribly good mood before he had finished the ritual of paper and coffee.
“Did,” Homberly answered with a sniffling sound. “Been waiting half an hour. In a bit of a hurry, Dewar, if you want the truth.”
“By all means, let us have no evasions,” Dewar answered, in a bored voice.
Rex sat down at the chair just vacated by his host and began to glance at the paper. As he turned a page, he heedlessly reached out for the cup of coffee and raised it to his lips, while Dewar looked on, first in vexation, finally giving way to resignation, as one always did in the end with Homberly.
After another moment, Dewar went to the door and called his valet. While he made a careful toilette, taking quite ten minutes to tie his cravat to his liking, and another two or three to select from amongst his blue jackets, Homberly read on silently, his lips forming each syllable, stopping only to sip from time to time. The dressing and drinking were concluded simultaneously.
“Next time you mean to honour me by coming for breakfast you must let me know, Rex, and I shall provide you gammon and eggs, or a nice beefsteak if you prefer,” his cousin said.
“That’d be dandy, Dewar. Just dandy. The coffee was good, but I prefer more sugar, and a lot of cream—at least half a cup. Foxey is such a jokesmith, he says I take a little coffee in my cream.”
“A dangerous man with his tongue, Foxey.”
“So he is. Think I could handle a second cup all the same,” Rex said magnanimously, and reached for the pot.
“Help yourself. And, when you are finished, we shall discuss what brought you here. There was talk of a great hurry.”
“So there was, by Jove. Slipped my mind. Got to reading about that woman that cleaved her man’s head open with an axe. They say there was brains spilt on the floor. Ain’t that an awful thing for a woman to do. You ever seen brains, Dew?”
“As a matter of fact I have, but I cannot ever recall seeing any evidence of them when I am with you, Rex,” he answered in a kindly tone. “About that hurry...”
“Have to let Roper know what to pack for the visit. Thing is, only wanted to ask you if there’s anything in particular I’ll be needing. Outside of horses and clothes, I mean. Got any rigs running is what I’m asking you.”
“You want to know the nature of the diversions planned to amuse you?” Dewar asked.
“That’s it. Know you often make your guests take part in a play or a pageant or whatnot. Got a dandy horse’s outfit at home. Me and Foxey wore it to a masquerade party at Wilmot’s last night. Had a jolly time. Mind if we go as a horse again, I mean to be the front end, for it’s not only hot as Jehoshaphat at the rear—it puts a crick in your back, bending over so long.”
“I try to avoid the obvious, so shan’t say a word about the suitability of your outfit. I see no need for the costume at the Abbey, Rex. Thoughtful of you to ask.”
“Not at all. Very happy to help you out any way I can. Thought your mama might enjoy it. Just what is on then? Mean to say, when Dewar takes a party off to St. Alton’s Abbey for a month at the beginning of the little season, folks wonder what you’re up to. Can’t be just Alicia’s getting buckled to old Smith-Daiches, for you had the visit planned before that. Was yourself pushed Daiches at her head, as far as that goes. You ain’t taking any ladies, so it don’t look like one of your famous dramatical presentations. Wish you’d asked me to take a part in the last one, with all the devils and stuff in it.”
“I have no drama planned this trip. Some hunting, riding, a few routs, a ball perhaps....”
“Sure you ain’t going to make us write?” Homberly asked, with a suspicious eye. “I remember the time you locked all your guests up and made us each write a one-act play. Ain’t going to write no silly play, Dewar.”
“You have already done that. One silly play from you is more than enough. And if you will recall, Cousin, I did not invite you on that literary sojourn he
ld at the Abbey. A bunch of us—Leigh Hunt it was, Byron, Tom Moore, and a couple of blue ladies—wanted to compare how different writers would tackle the idea of a modern morality play. It was Byron’s idea. It was not a success, however. Byron claimed none of us knew enough about the subject to do it justice.”
“Don’t intend to sit around painting pictures either. Didn’t invite myself the week-end you had us to your hunting box and made us all paint each other as some famous painting. You invited me. Didn’t know you didn’t plan to hunt. Mean to say, a man invites you to his hunting box... And you turned that pretty little Frances Webster into an ugly old Mona Lisa. Made a very poor Julius Caesar yourself too, I can tell you.”
“I have given up taking an active part in the arts, Rex. Mother Nature has played a cruel prank on me. It is ironic that I, who perhaps appreciate music, painting, and poetry more than any other man in England, should be endowed with no talent to execute any of them. I am a mere critic. I don’t mean to subject my guests or myself to any of that form of torture you speak of. If you have misgivings, however, I shall be very happy to make your excuses to Mama ...,” he said politely.
“Well, I’ll go then, if you’re sure we won’t have to do anything. Mean to say, not a bad time of the year to be in the country. Hunting good. Excellent cellar at St. Alton’s. Your chef—Bernier—will be going with you?” he asked eagerly.
“Certainly he will. I never move without him.”
“Settles it. Be there for dinner this evening. What does he mean to serve us, do you happen to know?”
“He mentioned soupe à la bonne femme, dindon à la Perigueuse, poule à la Condé....”
“Pity. Was hoping for bubble and squeak,” Rex said, and pulled himself from the chair with a sigh, his back hunched forward at an awkward angle. “Devilish crick in my back from that costume. Sure you won’t be needing it at the Abbey?”
“Quite sure.”
Homberly wandered out the door, and Dewar rang for a fresh pot of coffee and a clean cup. He sat long over it, thinking in a sad, nostalgic way of times gone by. The good old days when he had associated with the people who did things. His mind wandered to the Hunt brothers, Leigh and John, who had been incarcerated for libeling their Prince Regent in the Examiner, their influential though small paper. ‘A libertine over head and ears in debt and disgrace’ they had called him, among other things. It had been fun to decorate Leigh’s prison cell, which was in fact a very fine room, complete with piano and his books.
They had contrived to make him quite comfortable, painting the ceiling like a sky with clouds, covering the walls with a rose-trellis design, and always keeping him supplied with good wine and fresh flowers. Some snug little dinners they had held there.
Then there had been the season he had been involved in art, and the exhibitions of the Royal Academy. What a fuss they had raised about showing Turner’s superb Snowstorm: Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps. The latter part of the title was added to get it through the hanging committee, who could not see their way clear to exhibit ‘a huge and violent sky’ as art. The best, and certainly the most influential, painting of that year—or decade. Some folks called Dewar a dilettante; he did not consider it an appropriate term, indicating as it did a lack of seriousness, a trifling sort of interest.
He was keenly interested in all manifestations of beauty. His greatest regret was that he did not excel in any of the arts. He was relegated to the post of patron, seeking out the new and talented people, and encouraging them. If he occasionally stepped on a few toes by deriding the old and fusty in the process, it was regrettable but necessary.
His valet entered and began picking up his discarded dressing gown and ruined cravats. This bustling about displeased His Lordship, which aggravation was conveyed to his valet by one scathing glance from his eye. He would retire to his study, to peruse the long rows of books for something light and simple to amuse the local folks at Harknell.
“If I may remind you, my lord, there was the letter from Her Ladyship, your mother, you meant to do something about before leaving,” the servant said in a timorous tone.
“Letter? Ah yes, it slipped my mind. Some neighbour has bought himself a knighthood. Have my secretary send him a congratulatory note, Wickens, and sign my name. I do not wish to be disturbed.” He strode from the room, muttering under his breath, “Molière, perhaps, would be amusing....”
* * *
Chapter 3
Dewar and his party had been at the Abbey for three days, without venturing farther afield than into the woods and parklands for some shooting. Homberly had been well entertained plundering his lordship’s well-stocked coverts, in company with George Foxworth, and accidentally shooting a foxhound as well when he discharged a gun into the bush by mistake.
The surreptitious burial of this animal took up a full hour, and another thirty minutes were used in concocting a story to account for its vanishing if Dewar happened to count his hounds and find one missing. Dewar had met for very brief and casual reports from his steward, nodding his head in a lazy sort of half-listening way to hear that all was in order, generally speaking, with a few details awaiting his own settlement.
“The local townspeople are after one of your tenants, old Arthur Evans, to give them a footpath through his land, to save them a few steps,” the steward mentioned.
"Is there any reason, outside of sheer ill nature, why he doesn’t do it? I never met such a bad-humoured man as Evans.”
“He says the path would go through his rose garden.”
“I would not encourage him to destroy a lovely rose garden, only to save the lazy pedestrians a few yards. Anything else?”
“There’s the schoolmaster in the village who is getting on in years. He is about due to retire, and a replacement will be needed. You will want a hand in that, I fancy.”
“What leads you to fancy anything of the sort?” Dewar asked, with a startled look on his face. There was no answer. “Has he asked to be retired?”
“No, but a few of the parents have suggested it. He is more learned than most of the gentlemen in these parts, but he is a bit hard of hearing.”
“That will be a marked advantage in a room full of rowdy youngsters. We’ll let him suggest it when he feels ready to hang up his rod. I do not approve of turning the old boys out to pasture prematurely. They so often cock up their toes and die within a twelvemonth. Is there anything else, Roots?”
“I’ll leave the books with you, to look over at your leisure.”
“What an abuse of leisure,” Dewar sighed.
“Your clergyman, Johnson, will want to speak to you. He is always after me for more money for the orphanage, but it seems to me the young lads have what they need. The local ladies are all active in helping tend to their needs. They have a committee to make up the clothing and hold little parties at Christmas, and so on.”
“We do not want to deprive the ladies of their good deeds. Don’t stint the boys on food and clothing and lessons, however. The last is the most important of the lot. It might be a nice gesture to have the charity ladies to tea at the Abbey one afternoon. I shall suggest it to Mama.”
“That’s it then,” Roots said, shuffling up his papers. “I’ll do as we agreed. Try the west acres in clean, fallow tares next season to see if we can improve the soil. Seems to me it ought to be yielding more than it is. And I’ll get you a price on Dutch-glazed tiles for the dairy.”
“I want to see the pattern and price before you proceed with the ordering, Roots. There is no reason my dairy cannot be pretty while we are about renovating it. The dairy girls spend a good deal of time there. I saw an interesting set-up at Beaton Hall—a fountain of fresh-running water set in the middle of the big stone table used for creaming and ripening the milk for churning. It seemed to keep the whole place clean and fresh-smelling. Most dairies have an odour that does not encourage one to linger. My own is no exception, I fear. I shall have a barn built out back too, for cheese.”
“How was this fresh water kept running?” Roots asked skeptically.
“By means of a pump, I expect. Unless there was one of those wells of the sort they have at Artois, where the water swells without pumping.”
“There’s no such quantity of water hereabouts.”
“I would like you to look into it all the same. I shall be in touch with my friends at Beaton Hall, and discover from them how it was done. A dairy should be quaintly pastoral in character—pretty milk maids all in a row, in clean aprons. Yes, the babble of freshly running water will add to the rustic character I strive for. And it will keep the place fresh-smelling. I know your theory that every penny spent must bring in two, Roots, but I wish you will humour me in this matter,” Dewar said in a mild enough way, but the imperative glance he levelled on his steward did not encourage the man to argue further. “Thank you so much,” Dewar said, showing him to the door. “We shall take a day off very soon for a tour of the estate, and to say good day to all my tenants.”
"I’ll introduce you to them,” Roots could not desist from saying.
“Oh I am not quite a stranger to most of them.”
“No, sir, only the five families that have come the past two years. It is two years since you have made a tour.”
“Is it really so long? Tempus fugit, does it not? It seems only yesterday we ploughed through those muddy fields, you and I, ruining our topboots. I must remember not to wear my white-trimmed ones.”
"I’d been telling you for six months that field wanted tilling.”
“I had been telling you for longer than six years to tend to such matters for me. What horrors have you in store for me this time, I wonder, that you are so eager to lure me off into the wilderness?”
“No horrors, I hope, but it is a good idea to be acquainted with your own estate and tenants. They like to feel you take an interest.”